The Honeysuckle

I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where

           The hedge on high is quick with thorn,

           And climbing for the prize, was torn,

      And fouled my feet in quag-water;

           And by the thorns and by the wind

           The blossom that I took was thinn'd,

      And yet I found it sweet and fair.

      Thence to a richer growth I came,

           Where, nursed in mellow intercourse,

       The honeysuckles sprang by scores,

      Not harried like my single stem,

           All virgin lamps of scent and dew.

           So from my hand that first I threw,

      Yet plucked not any more of them.